I know what you’re thinking. After that big hullaballoo about being consistent, I stopped being consistent. Well guess what, I’m consistently not consistent. Seems every time I say I’m going to do something, I immediately don’t do it. Now how strange is that? If I only tell myself I’m going to do it, I have a much better chance of getting it done. But the second I tell someone else, it never happens. Of course, fighting off the flu does have something to do with it. I’m not even sure if it was the flu. I could just be depressed with severe allergies. I just generally associate sudden tiredness and scratchy throat with the beginnings of a cold.
Did I have a point?
No. No I didn’t. In any event, it has come to my attention that a thing I should have on my consistently non-consistent blog is the inspiration behind my books and why I wrote them. Maybe my ramblings on this train of thought will help someone else find a creative outlet that works for them.
For me, writing is just something I have to do. I have to get the stories out. I was never really consistent with it, writing was never a daily thing, but I never went more than a couple of weeks without writing something. Somewhere, hopefully somewhere in my house, is a notebook filled with stories from when I was younger. I had chosen a person I had named Bethany Sara Brisket and wrote an entire series of horror short stories, if you want to call anything written by an eight year old “horror.” She was a twelve year old girl with long, curly red hair, bright blue eyes, and freckles around her nose. Her and her friends were always exploring places they shouldn’t and would often get into trouble, but Bethany always found a way out. I don’t remember all the stories or even who all her friends were, but I still remember her. One day her stories just stopped. It was like she stopped talking to me or something and I had to find a new friend to write about.
In my search for a muse, my mom suggested I try journalism, so I started writing a secret newspaper filled with all the happenings of the kids on my block. I remember writing about the time someone cut down my extremely tall tree. I think it had white wood. It may have been a birch but I’m not sure. In any event, the neighborhood kids had gathered around it and we started using the little stump as a stage for playing rock star or circus. I remember that when I started writing about it, I got bored out of my mind and started making things up so it would be interesting. I learned then that I was never going to be a journalist because the truth of everyday life was just too dull. Even if what the kids did was actually fun and interesting, I’d have to toss in some kind of monster or ghost before I cared.
Next up I tried comics. They were nothing fancy, but it gave me something to do while I was ignoring my teachers. I wasn’t a bad student, mind you. I just either finished the assignment and wanted to keep myself busy or already knew the subject matter and wanted to look busy. In any event, somewhere in this house is a binder filled with my comic, Mooreal the box cat. I drew him like a box. He had a box body with a smaller box for a head, squiggly feet, and giant ears. I recently tried to draw him again. I think it looked better back then. Anyway, I sent him on all kinds of adventures I thought cats went on and copied some of the ones I had read in a Garfield or Heathcliff book. (And now I’m wondering why I got rid of those books.)
I also had another comic with some weird eyeball people with big kissy lips. That one was mostly drama about who was dating who. I remember the girl broke up with the guy and started dating another guy who was a complete jerk so she went back to her first guy who really didn’t want anything to do with her anymore because of how she treated him. In the end they got back together, but I don’t remember how or why.
There was also a period of time where I wrote Star Trek TNG fanfiction. I think that’s pretty self explanatory.
This is too much about me, but I suppose that’s the point if you want to get to know me a little better and find out what I’m all about. I never shared any of my previous works with anyone. My mom knew I wrote stories, but she never got to read any of them because I couldn’t handle the possible criticism. So they remain unseen wherever I lost them.
Anyway, that’s enough for this session. I guess I’ll do a part two that will actually explain what I started out to explain, the inspiration about the stories I actually did share. Maybe in writing the whys I can get back to a place that will help me create again, finding my own voice and all that.
Let’s all work together to make a better world. We can be each other’s cheerleader. We all rise together.
Follow me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. And if you want more random streams of consciousness sent directly to your inbox, consider signing up for the newsletter.
YA Fantasy author and amateur photographer living in New Mexico. A reflection of herself, her characters are timid at first but tend to stand up and push through when times get tough.